


A Rose and A Mockingbird

by Sarra Manderly (TasarienOfCarasGaladhon)



Series: Aemon the Dragonwolf [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bran is the God in the Tree, Cersei is Queen in the South, Edric Dayne Really Wants a Stark BFF, Gen, Ignores S7 Spoilers, Independent North, Jon Practices Warging, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon is King in the North, Mix of Show and Book Verse, The Hound Eats Some Chicken, The Hound Spills the Beans, Winter Is Coming For Petyr Baelish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-13 09:11:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11181588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon/pseuds/Sarra%20Manderly
Summary: Petyr Baelish has pledged the Knights of the Vale to the North, and wormed his way into Jon's council. Unfortunately for him, the Brotherhood Without Banners is coming to Winterfell, and among them is a man who can expose Littlefinger's worst deeds...





	1. Sandor I

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back? I've been planning this one for a while, but the words wouldn't come until I'd written The Son's Song for some reason. This is the famous visit mentioned in the other story, during which the Brotherhood boys spill some secrets, but don't say a word about Arya. This is the first story chronologically, so Jon is a very new king and he and Sansa are still figuring out where they stand. Davos isn't the Hand yet (officially, anyway), Bran is still north of the Wall (but helping out where he can), and Brienne and Jaime haven't reached Winterfell yet.
> 
> If you're new to the Aemon series, welcome! This is the perfect place to start; just beware that I post the stories out of order and re-order as I go.
> 
> (No chickens were harmed during the writing of this story.)

**SANDOR I**

 

Winterfell was not what he'd expected. He'd expected the road to be difficult and freezing cold, his traveling companions unbearable, and the food sorely lacking. All had been true enough. But the ancient home of the Starks, which had been sacked, burned, and taken by enemies, looked strong and even inviting to Sandor's tired eyes.

 

Well, that was assuming they could get in, of course.

 

“Halt!” ordered a guard from above the gate. “Who goes there?”

 

“I am Lord Beric Dondarrion,” replied the Lightning Lord. “This is the Brotherhood Without Banners. We seek an audience with the Starks.”

 

“I will vouch for these men, if need be,” spoke up Harwin the Northman. “I am Harwin, who rode south with Lord Stark and King Robert. Hullen was my father.”

 

Suspicious gray eyes peered down at the ragtag group, but soon enough, the gates opened. No one seemed to recognize the Hound, not with his new scars and without his dog's head helm. He and his companions were divested of weapons, and sent to the main hall to await the new King in the North and his sister, the princess Sansa.

 

Sandor fought back a snort. The little bird had been so eager to marry Joffrey and become his princess, and in the end she'd become one on her own, by virtue of her father's blood. He wondered what she'd done in between, and if she'd kept any of her innocence. If the rumors around the Riverlands had any truth to them, the pretty songbird had become a murderous vampire-bat, and it was about time!

 

When the pair entered, the Hound thought he was seeing things. The Bastard of Winterfell and his sister looked like Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully come again. It was no wonder that Littlefinger trailed after Sansa Stark like a stallion after a mare in heat! And the boy, with his wolf cloak and his growing beard, looked more like Ned Stark than any of his trueborn sons ever had.

 

Princess Sansa's eyes roved over the group, widening at the sight of Dondarrion, and even further at the sight of Sandor himself.

 

“Ser Sandor!” she cried. “I did not think to see you again.”

 

“Nor I you, little bird,” he answered honestly.

 

“Sansa has told me that you offered to smuggle her from King's Landing,” her brother spoke up, regarding Sandor with shrewd gray eyes. “Although she did not take the offer, I thank you all the same.”

 

The Hound shrugged. It had been an impulsive and stupid offer; he'd have been caught at once with such a distinctive beauty on his horse, but she had refused him, making the point moot.

 

“May we have bread and salt, your grace?” asked the Lightning Lord.

 

Jon Snow waved at a nearby servant, and the girl approached with a small tray of bread. They each took a piece, savoring the taste after so much dried meat, stale black bread, and broths that were mostly water.

 

“Lord Beric, I see the rumors of your death were greatly exaggerated,” the King in the North told their leader, raising an eyebrow.

 

Dondarrion flashed a quick, sardonic grin. “As much as the rumors of yours, your grace, and more besides. Thoros here is a servant of the Lord of Light, and has called me back from the void more times than I care to remember.”

 

None missed how the king's face darkened at the mention of the Red God. The Red Woman in their midst, disguised as a black-haired squire with a bulbous nose, lowered her head.

 

“Then I am sorry for you,” Jon Snow said at last, and obviously meant it. “What brings you to Winterfell?”

 

“Thoros has seen the danger beyond the Wall in his fires,” the Lightning Lord explained. “Your father sent us to protect the realm from harm, and so we have done. But there is no danger greater than this, your grace.”

 

“I agree,” the king replied. “You must know, however, that fire—even the magical fire of your god—can only do so much. It will destroy wights, the servants of the Others. But the Others themselves can smother all fires; it takes dragonglass or Valyrian steel to defeat them.”

 

“We know,” said Thoros of Myr. “We have a few obsidian daggers and arrowheads among us,” he added, showing the king the black dagger he kept at his belt. “On our journey north, we passed through the barrowlands. I had a dream the night we camped there, and we entered one of the barrows to find these.”

 

The scattered Northmen around the room gasped.

 

“You entered a barrow?” Sansa asked, her blue eyes wide.

 

“Aye, Princess,” Harwin spoke up. “I wouldn't have done for love or money, but Thoros said it was necessary. We encountered no surprises, in any case; we just took the weapons and ran for it.”

 

That was an understatement. Harwin had bored them all stupid with northern superstitions, complaining loudly that he wanted no vengeful barrow kings coming after him, especially since he was a Stark man, and the Starks and the barrow kings had long been enemies. Sandor had been tempted to knock him unconscious and leave him in there, but the Red Witch had stopped him.

 

“Well then, I suppose you're as prepared as any of us. Are you headed for Castle Black?”

 

“If the Lord Commander will have us,” replied Dondarrion.

 

“Any man who wishes to defend the Wall is a friend to us, and I know Lord Commander Tollett will agree,” the King in the North declared. “I will have rooms prepared for you, and your mounts stabled and fed for the nonce. Be welcome to Winterfell, sers.”

 

The Brotherhood bowed. It was easy to see which of them had been knights and which had been lowly peasant soldiers, Sandor thought. They sat at the nearest table, and Winterfell servants brought them food and drink. After such a journey, the simple meal in front of them looked a feast.

 

Sandor reached for the nearest plate of chicken, groaning in pleasure when the warm meat and spices hit his tongue. If there was one thing he remembered fondly about his first trip to Winterfell, it was the food.

 

He was so busy eating at first that he didn't notice the men and women filing into the hall. Most of them were grizzled Northmen, then one or two women, and a tiny little girl wearing a bear sigil. Finally, apart from the others, came a smirking face Sandor Clegane knew all too well.

 

“Littlefinger?” he asked, unable to comprehend how the brothel-keeper came to be here.

 

“Clegane, I did not expect to see you here,” the sly Lord of Harrenhal replied. “I thought you'd be halfway to the Summer Isles by now.”

 

The Hound snorted into his ale. “You know nothing, Baelish. What are _you_ doing here? Shouldn't you be whispering poison into the Arryn boy's ear?”

 

“Robert Arryn is perfectly safe in the Vale,” Littlefinger replied smoothly, ignoring how the rest of the Brotherhood listened to their conversation. “I am a part of the King in the North's council, however, since the Vale and the North are once again allies.”

 

“You are no one's ally but your own, whoremonger,” Sandor told him viciously, a sinking feeling taking hold of his breast.

 

Littlefinger shrugged off the accusation with forced good humor. “Come now, Clegane, surely we can be friends? We are all in the North now, far from the Lannisters.”

 

Sandor ignored him, glaring in silence until the mockingbird tired of waiting and walked off with a halfhearted chuckle. He tried to return to his food, but his appetite had disappeared.

 

Why should _he_ care if the little bird and her idiot brother trusted the biggest liar in the Seven Kingdoms? Sandor could not explain it even to himself. And yet...he doubted they knew how depraved Littlefinger truly was. Would Sansa Stark truly have made Littlefinger part of the council if she'd known that he'd forced her best friend into a life of whoring?

 

Sandor had to warn her. If Jon Snow was like their father in more than looks, Littlefinger would have a knife to _his_ throat before long, and Sansa Stark would be left alone again. That he could not allow, and he had to act fast. Littlefinger might poison all the chickens in Winterfell to kill Sandor, and the Hound could not bear such a tragic waste of his favorite food.

 

Finding the little bird in her own home was much more difficult than it had been in the Red Keep. Without the cloak of the Kingsguard, or the protection of the Lannisters, he lacked the freedom to move about the castle as he liked, and Sansa was safely ensconced in the family wing. While the rest of the Brotherhood rested or explored the castle grounds, the Hound looked for red hair.

 

Finally, when it was nearly suppertime, he saw her leaving the kitchens, dressed in a simple green gown made beautiful by her embroidery.

 

“Little bird,” he said quickly, catching her attention. It pleased Sandor that she no longer flinched at the sight of him, though he wondered why. “What are you doing with _Petyr Baelish_?”

 

She sighed. “I don't trust him, but we would have lost the battle without him and the Knights of the Vale. I can't leave him out of the council now, no matter how much I might wish to. And in case you hadn't noticed, I've been careful to avoid him when we're not in meetings.”

 

“Lady Stark, do you have any idea what that man _did_?”

 

The Princess in the North scowled. He'd never seen such anger on her face before, not even when Joffrey had made her look at her father's head on a spike.

 

“He sold me to Ramsay Bolton, a man who tortured women for sport,” she said, venom oozing from her voice. “The man who knows everything claimed he didn't _know_ Ramsay was a monster before he sent me to the family that murdered mine.”

 

Sandor looked her over, and realized that his moniker no longer fit. She was no more a bird than he was a dragon. Eddard Stark's oldest daughter had finally found the wolf in her blood.

 

“He's done worse than that, Princess. Do you remember the little girl that was with you in the Tower of the Hand, when the Lannisters killed all of the Stark men?”

 

Sansa frowned a bit, then remembered. “Jeyne? Jeyne Poole, the steward's daughter? What happened to her?”

 

“Cersei Lannister said that she'd been _upsetting_ you and must be removed from your presence. So she gave the girl to Littlefinger, and Littlefinger carried the girl away to one of his brothels, kicking and screaming. I heard tell he had her beaten black and blue, until she stopped asking for her father or for any Stark. She's still in King's Landing, a plaything of men just like that Ramsay Bolton.”

 

The Sansa Stark of old would have wept, or screamed, or called him a mean old liar, mayhaps. The new Sansa Stark, beaten and widowed and reborn as a Princess of Winter, only closed her eyes. When they opened once more, the blue orbs shone with fury.

 

“Anything else?” she asked quietly.

 

“Your father had discovered that Joffrey and his siblings were not the king's children,” Sandor explained. “He asked Littlefinger to get the City Watch on his side, so he could arrest the Lannisters. Baelish promised him this, and betrayed him. I was in the throne room myself, when Littlefinger held a dagger to your father's throat. _I did warn you not to trust me_ ,” he said.

 

Sansa was biting her lower lip. Angry tears threatened to fall from her eyes, but they did not.

 

“What else, ser?”

 

Sandor knew the last would be the most damning.

 

“Cersei Lannister and the rest of the small council meant for your father to take the black. It was _Littlefinger_ that convinced Joffrey your father had to die; he wanted your mother for himself, and Eddard Stark was in the way. I watched him poison the boy king against your father, and smile when Ilyn Payne took his head.”

 

A tear fell from her left eye. Sansa seemed too angry to speak. Her face, now stripped of the artifice of King's Landing, spoke loudly enough in any case. Before Sandor could do or say anything, a massive white beast appeared at the girl's side, barreling past the man to lick at the princess' delicate hand.

 

“Ghost,” she murmured, patting the gigantic wolf's head. “I'm well, thank you.”

 

“I'd forgotten your family had those wolves,” Sandor said, watching the direwolf carefully. “This one is your brother's, then?”

 

“Yes, this is Jon's wolf,” she replied. “He's been guarding us both since we took back our home.”

 

Ghost inspected Sandor then, sniffing at him and studying him with red eyes that were far too intelligent for a wolf.

 

“I bet he's torn out a throat or two,” Sandor offered, staying very still. “You ought to feed Littlefinger to him.”

 

“I'd never feed Ghost something so horrible,” she replied. “But Petyr Baelish _will_ die. Will you help me, Sandor Clegane?”

 

Seven hells. This girl had always been his weak spot. He had no idea what she would ask of him, but he nodded almost at once.

 

“Excellent. Ghost,” she ordered the wolf, “bring Jon to his solar. We have work to do.”

 

 

 


	2. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa, Jon, and the Hound come up with a new plan, and revive an old Winterfell tradition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, I *am* a sucker for Stark bonding and family feels. There will be some in every part of this series, and also Targ bonding when Dany and Jon become friends after Parley. The sweetness is needed to balance out the filth and despair of Westeros in general IMO. Consider yourself warned, summer children!

** SANSA I **

 

Jon had been quite surprised by the summons, but had listened to Sansa's and the Hound's tale. In addition to the former sworn sword's accusations, Sansa had added the slow poisoning of her cousin, the death of her very own Florian, the lies to the Lords Declarant of the Vale, a singer named Marillion, and an unexpected flight through the Moon Door. By the end of their conversation, Sandor Clegane had taken hold of her brother's shoulders, keeping him forcibly in his seat as Jon's wolf blood overwhelmed his reason.

 

Sansa had then proposed a plan, concocted by herself with input from the Hound. She would let Littlefinger believe he was back in her good graces after winning the battle, and suggest—delicately, of course—that she would make an excellent Queen in the North. She would plot with him, meet with him in places where loyal people might overhear. Once she had enough evidence, she would accuse him in front of Jon's council and the Knights of the Vale, and Baelish would die.

 

The King in the North had looked at her with aghast gray eyes that reminded her painfully of Father's. Sansa had known he wouldn't like her plan; he was so much like Father that he had died the same way: betrayed by those he'd trusted. Thanks to the Red Witch and her magic she had Jon back, and she would _not_ allow Littlefinger to kill him again. She would make use of the Hound while he was here, and rid the North of a pest too dangerous to live.

 

“No,” he declared finally. “Sansa, we can't do it that way.”

 

“You can't just cut off his head, boy,” the Hound said shortly, still keeping the younger man in his chair. “This is a different sort of battle.”

 

“I know that,” Jon protested, “I'm not as stupid as you think I am. But this would destroy you, Sansa. I don't mean your innocence,” he added quickly, seeing she was about to protest. “I mean your reputation as a Stark. I've had Davos keeping an ear to the ground, and some of our men mistrust you already.”

 

“Why?” cried Sansa, stung. “Because I was married to a Bolton and a Lannister?”

 

Jon shook his head. “It's not that, at least, not entirely. They don't like that you kept the Vale army secret from us. See, to the men that fought for us from the beginning, it looked like you used them—and me—as bait for the Boltons, and once we were dying by the hundreds, your shining knights rode in to save the day. They think you don't care at all about me or Rickon; you just wanted your castle back at all costs.”

 

Sansa sank into her chair, fighting back sudden tears. “Jon, you know that's not what I—”

 

“ _I_ know you wouldn't do that to me,” he soothed her. “But _they_ don't. If any of them hear you plotting with Petyr Baelish, they'll call for your head. You'll be branded a turncloak and a kinslayer, Sansa. Trust me on this; I know what happens when you ignore the rumors and forge ahead anyway,” he said painfully, tracing one of his stab wounds over his clothes.

 

She looked to the Hound, who was watching her with a puzzled sort of intensity. “What in the seven hells were you thinking, girl? If your brother is commanding your army, he should know about forces kept in reserve.”

 

“I know,” Sansa cried, “but it was Littlefinger at the helm! I had no way to know if he would come or not, and I didn't want to give anyone false hope!”

 

“What if you admitted to your council that you knew of the plan?” the Hound offered, finally releasing Jon's shoulders. “It didn't work very well for your father, but it might for you; you're not in King's Landing.”

 

“What do you mean?” Jon asked.

 

Sandor Clegane sighed. “When Catelyn Stark kidnapped the Imp and took him to the Vale, Eddard Stark tried to pretend he'd ordered her to do it, when it was _painfully_ obvious that he had not. Can you lie better than your sire, your grace?”

 

“If they all think as badly of me as Ser Davos says, it won't matter,” Sansa said gloomily.

 

“I wish we _could_ just drag him to the heart tree and kill him outright, before he can bribe or trick anyone,” Jon groaned, running a hand through his dark hair in frustration.

 

“We can't do that without breaking guest right and losing the Knights of the Vale,” Sansa reminded him unnecessarily.

 

“And forget about meeting him alone, to plot or even to talk about the weather,” Jon ordered suddenly. “It's too dangerous; he could try to kidnap you again, and drag you back to the Vale for a third forced wedding.”

 

Sansa had to admit the scenario was not entirely impossible, and shivered.

 

“We have to do this the Northern way,” Jon said, steepling his hands under his pointed chin. His scarred hand stood out sharply against his dark beard and his pale left hand. After a long silence, he got up and began to pace, back and forth, from window to door.

 

Then he stopped, and Sansa caught a rare sparkle of optimism in her brother's gray eyes. “Sansa, do you remember what Father used to say about heart trees?”

 

Sansa shook her head. To her shame, she'd ignored Old Nan's and Father's tales of the old gods in favor of the Seven, with their pretty septs and grand ceremonies. Lady Catelyn had not cared for the old gods, and Sansa had followed in her footsteps, believing she would marry and grow old in the south. Out of Father's six children, only Jon had kept strictly to the old gods. The sept had been very much Mother's domain, and Jon had known all too well that he was not welcome there.

 

“Father said that no one could lie in front of a heart tree,” Jon explained. “Lord Mormont told me his father said the same to him as a boy. What if it were true? What if we took Littlefinger to the one place in Winterfell where he could not lie, and had him confess _there_?”

 

The Hound snorted.

 

“That would be very useful,” Sansa said practically, ignoring the knight, “and it would explain why Father always talked to us there after we'd done something naughty. But we can't count on it until we try. Shall we go to the godswood now and practice lying to each other?”

 

Her brother smiled. It was an unusual sight, especially now that he was grown and so very solemn. “We may not need it. What if we revise your plan a little, Sansa? You don't need to pretend you trust Littlefinger, or plot my murder with him for weeks on end. In fact, you can do the opposite.”

 

“How?” Sandor Clegane asked, frowning at the king.

 

“If he's watching closely, he must know that you two talked,” Jon went on, “so lure him to the godswood with a message. Tell him that you _want_ to trust him again, but you can't until he clears up some accusations that the Hound made against him.”

 

Sansa grinned. Littlefinger thought all Northmen were stupid fools he could manipulate at will, savages who wore their honor like pretty, but useless, armor. He had only ever respected Roose Bolton, for obvious and despicable reasons. Jon would prove him wrong.

 

“If Ser Sandor is willing, he and the Brotherhood can guard the gate as soon as Littlefinger enters; I'll ask Tormund to do the same with the smaller gates. Davos can whisper to the right witnesses that there's treason afoot, and we'll hide them around the heart tree. When Littlefinger is there, you can make him confess, in the hopes of earning back your trust. We may not even need the old gods.”

 

The Hound was watching Jon with an expression that looked almost impressed.

 

“And best of all,” Jon finished, “you'll be surrounded by our men at all times. If Littlefinger tries anything, we'll kill him outright.”

 

“He won't hurt me, Jon,” Sansa assured him. “He'll give me some compliments, and try to shake my trust in you, but he's never done worse than kiss me.”

 

The King in the North and the Hound both looked thunderous.

 

“A kiss is only harmless if you _want_ one,” Jon said with audible fury. “He'll never do it again, mark my words.”

 

Sansa thought it best to change the subject quickly. Jon was usually cool and collected, like Father had been, but there were a few things that sent him into a towering rage. She'd learned that his sisters coming to harm was one of them.

 

“Make sure you place some Vale lords around the heart tree, and I'll bring up Aunt Lysa if I can. They may not care so much about his betrayal of our father, or poor Jeyne, but knowing that he pushed their liege lady out the Moon Door—and that he encouraged her to poison their liege lord—should be enough for several death sentences.”

 

“It will be my pleasure to take his head,” Jon said, scowling so fiercely that Sansa was almost frightened. Then she remembered it was _Jon_ , the one person left in the world that would never hurt her. “Unless you'd like to do it. Longclaw is Valyrian steel, and quite a bit thinner and shorter than Ice; even _you_ should be able to lift it, Sansa.”

 

His offer was earnest. The old Sansa would have protested, and quite loudly, that she could not kill a man. But the old, starry-eyed Sansa had not fed her husband to his dogs. The new Sansa appreciated Jon's thoughtfulness.

 

“That would be a sight,” said the Hound, grinning. “Have you grown fierce enough to execute a man, little wolf?”

 

He was looking at her rather strangely, like he expected her to accept Jon's offer. She wondered if that was a compliment.

 

“Thank you, but no,” Sansa replied, smiling at her brother. “I'll leave the beheadings to you, if you don't mind. This is the sharpest weapon I will carry,” she finished, holding out the embroidery needle she kept in her apron pocket.

 

“Alright, then,” Jon answered. “Ser Clegane, I thank you for everything you've done, and will do here.”

 

He offered his hand to the Hound, who shook it. To Sansa's surprise, the knight bowed to Jon and to herself, then left the room, leaving the siblings alone in the solar. Jon immediately dragged two chairs closer to the fire, and led Sansa to the most comfortable one. She took the offered seat, and looked at her brother curiously.

 

“What are we doing, Jon?” she asked him.

 

Jon's lips twitched. “You are a Princess in the North now, Sansa. You need to relearn the stories and songs of your people.”

 

In his unscarred hand he held an old book named _Weirwoods and White Walkers: Tales of the North_.

 

“Where did you find that?” Sansa asked, touching the cover almost reverently. “The library tower burned down ages ago!”

 

“I found it in the ruins of Maester Luwin's turret,” he replied, sitting on the other chair. “Since we've a free evening for once, I thought we could read a bit.”

 

Sansa's throat suddenly felt too thick to talk; her eyes watered, and _not_ because of the dusty book. His intentions were clear to her; they had skirted around their home and each other for three moons, unsure of how to act, too hurt to just fall back into old patterns. This was Jon offering to return to the Winterfell of their youth, if only for a little while.

 

“You used to read to Arya,” she said softly.

 

“I used to read to both of you,” he answered mildly. “When Robb ran off with Theon and I didn't want to go along, I'd sneak into the nursery and read to _both_ of my sisters.”

 

There was no reproach in his tone, but Sansa felt it all the same. Out of her two elder brothers, Jon had always been the most patient with the younger children, herself included. Until she had decided bastards were not worth her time—with Mother and Septa Mordane helping her reach that decision, naturally—she had spent quite a bit of time in Jon's care, especially when Mother had been carrying Arya, and then Bran.

 

“You sang, too,” Sansa remembered suddenly. “When Arya was ill with the blue pox, I remember you came into the room. I was pretending to sleep, but I heard you singing to her.”

 

“Aye,” he said fondly. “It was one of the few things that could calm her as a babe, when she worked up one of her tantrums.”

 

Sansa reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. “Go on then, Jon. Read us a proper northern tale.”

 

He read. Robb might have chosen a comedy to cheer them up, but Jon had not. The tale he'd picked was of the Last Hero of the First Men, the one who had sought the aid of the Children of the Forest to survive the Long Night. It was a sad tale, full of loss. Silent tears trickled down Sansa's cheeks as the Last Hero buried his friends, one by one, and finally, his last companion—his faithful dog—and went on, utterly alone. What had been just a sad tale for children was all too real for the surviving Starks.

 

“Sansa? Are you well?”

 

“Fine,” she replied, snapping out of her half-doze. “I'm well, Jon, it's just a sad tale.”

 

“I should have chosen something else,” Jon said regretfully. “But this one was on my mind; Sam told me once that he found a version in which the Last Hero killed Others with a dragonsteel blade. I hoped we might have it in Winterfell, but this isn't it.”

 

“It's alright,” Sansa assured him. “Compared to my usual nightmares, the Last Hero's adventures are quite cheerful, you know.”

 

Jon could not hide a grimace. “We should get some sleep,” he said at last. “You have your own monster to fight tomorrow.”

 

He marked the page with an embroidered bookmark that Grandmother Lyarra had made, and closed the old book carefully. He then offered his left hand to Sansa, and gently pulled her to her feet.

 

“Sleep well,” he offered, kissing her forehead. Sansa stayed in his arms, breathing in the scents of leather, smoke, and old parchment. She had never embraced Jon much as a child; as an adult, she could not get enough of that simple comfort.

 

“I never do,” Sansa admitted. “But I am a Stark; I am not afraid of a few nightmares.”

 

Jon chuckled dryly. “I wish I had your courage; most nights I wake up screaming and wander about the castle until the sun rises.”

 

“Well, the next time it happens, come to me. I will be tossing and turning too, and my bed is bigger and more comfortable than yours.”

 

“Sansa, that's not—it's improper for a bast—” the King in the North stammered.

 

“I don't care,” she murmured into his shoulder. “We need to sleep. Mayhaps we can chase away each other's bad dreams for a change. Now, promise me.”

 

Jon stared at her, gray eyes wide. She was sure he would never have expected such an offer from the proper, southron Sansa of old. Septa Mordane and Mother would have fainted. But Sansa saw the deep shadows under her brother's eyes, and knew she must help him any way she could. And if helping him helped her, so much the better.

 

“Promise me you will wake me up instead of wandering the corridors alone. Do it, Jon.”

 

He sighed in defeat. “I promise, Sansa.”

 

Sansa beamed at him. “Good. Good night, your grace,” she said, grinning when he made a face at the title. Before he could protest any further, she left him for the comfort of her bedchamber. Tomorrow would be a busy day.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hound isn't bothered by the thought of a Stark girl picking up a sword and chopping off heads, I wonder why. OH WAIT. ;-)
> 
> Also, Jon flying into a rage when his sisters are in danger? That's a rather unsubtle nod to Book Jon, who does something stupid and reckless every time he gets news of his family's latest tragedy. 
> 
> Next time, the Starks spring their trap!


	3. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa confronts Littlefinger in the godswood.

**JON I**

 

The next morning, the King in the North woke to see a light snowfall outside his window. Jon had slept well enough to not need Sansa's offer, meaning he had slept half the night instead of none of it. He dressed in his warmest clothes, and of course, the Stark cloak Sansa had made for him. She met him in outside her bedchamber, the one he'd insisted she take, wearing a lovely dress and cloak of Tully blue wool and white fur. Her hair was styled in a way Lady Catelyn had favored in her youth. Jon knew it was a deliberate effort, so Littlefinger would see Catelyn Tully and not her daughter. Even _he_ saw Catelyn Stark, and it made him more uncomfortable than he cared to admit.

 

Breakfast was quiet at the high table. Ser Davos, usually cheerful, had received a letter from his wife via White Harbor, and was brooding more than usual. Even the boisterous Tormund was silent, though that was not so rare in the mornings.

 

When Jon had eaten as much as he wished, he left the high table and took Davos with him. Petyr Baelish sat at the same table, and his shrewd eyes were always watching Jon with an expression he couldn't read. This was not the place to speak to the former smuggler, who had been serving as Jon's unofficial Hand since the Northmen had made him king. Sansa had urged him to make the appointment official for a month, and that would serve well enough as a pretext for speaking privately.

 

“Ser Davos,” said Jon once they'd reached his solar. “You've been a faithful counselor to us, and I would see you rewarded, though I understand if you would rather return home. If you're willing to stay, however, I would name you Hand of the King.”

 

“I'm just an old smuggler, King Jon,” Davos protested halfheartedly.

 

“And I'm just a bastard crow returned from the dead,” Jon replied in the same tone. “Even Stannis Baratheon saw your worth and made you his Hand; did you think I wouldn't? I spent the past few years in the Watch, with thieves, smugglers, whores, and disgraced lords for brothers, Ser Davos.”

 

The Onion Knight sighed. “I _do_ wish to return home, your grace,” he admitted, “but I know how important the battle in the North will be to the whole kingdom. I'll not abandon you now, and Marya and my youngest sons have made their peace with that.”

 

Jon clapped the older man's shoulder in gratitude. “I can offer you lands and a title here in the North, though with the Long Night coming, you may wish to keep your family as far to the south as you can. Whatever is in my power to do for them, just name it, and it will be done, ser.”

 

The former smuggler's brown eyes met his own, and finally, Davos Seaworth smiled. “I would be honored to serve as Hand, your grace.”

 

“Good,” Jon sighed in relief. “Then I must tell you, Ser Davos, that there is a threat to our kingdom living in this castle, and Sansa and I mean to get rid of him. We will need your help.”

 

Davos Seaworth looked at Jon in alarm. “What sort of threat, your grace?”

 

Jon told Davos what the Hound and Sansa had shared with him about Petyr Baelish. He barely noticed how he was squeezing his hands into fists until his scarred hand twinged in pain. Forcing himself to breathe and relax his tight muscles, he told his new Lord Hand what the three of them had planned.

 

“The man Clegane is not known for his honor,” Ser Davos said at last, “but neither is Baelish. I don't doubt Lady Sansa's story, however. That man seems just the type to use poison and trickery. And I'm glad you talked her out of her original plan; Lord Glover might have called for her head if he'd caught a whiff of treachery from her.”

 

He straightened. “I'll round up the lords we need, your grace. They'll be armed, and in position in the godswood.”

 

“Thank you,” Jon answered. “Let's get to it.”

 

An hour later, Sansa and Ghost stood by the black pool beneath the heart tree, apparently alone. The icy wind plucked at her blue dress and auburn hair, and ruffled Ghost's fur. The woman and the wolf made a lovely picture of winter beauty in the North.

 

Jon kept an eye on her from behind an enormous ironwood. Lord Royce, Lord Glover, Lady Mormont, and a few others of his council were scattered around the small clearing, each covered with a hunter's snow-white hooded cloak, and hidden behind a tree. From his post behind the nearest sentinel, Ser Davos nodded to Jon, informing him silently that all of their men were in place. The Brotherhood and the Free Folk, under Tormund's command, would seal off all of the entrances once Baelish had entered, blocking his escape.

 

Petyr Baelish entered the godswood at last, whistling carelessly. He smiled at the sight of Sansa, dressed in her mother's colors and her mother's hairstyle. The enormous wolf made him pause, but he summoned his courage and pressed on, reaching the pool in no time at all.

 

“Dearest Sansa,” he murmured, and Jon scowled at his tone. “After our last conversation here, I did not think you would send for me. Yet here you are, a vision of loveliness; and I am your humble servant,” he said with a bow and flourish.

 

“I was angry,” Sansa replied. “You played a dangerous game with my life, Petyr, and it almost cost me _everything_. I may have been too hasty, especially considering your help with the battle, but I am still suffering the effects of my second marriage.” She shuddered dramatically, and Ghost nuzzled into her dress. “I can't even sleep at night, did you know that?”

 

“I am so, very truly sorry,” the weasel replied, stepping closer to Jon's sister. “What shall I do to prove my regret, my love? Name it, and I will fulfill your wish or die in the attempt.”

 

That was the opening Sansa had been hoping for.

 

“Sandor Clegane spoke to me earlier,” she replied, lowering her gaze to his. “He insisted I ought not to trust you, and he had a few tales to tell that explained why. Would you set my mind at ease, my lord? I don't trust easily these days, but after all we've been through together, I thought you deserved a chance to explain.”

 

The Lord Protector of the Vale snorted. “The Hound!” he said derisively. “What does Sandor Clegane know of anything beyond killing and eating and fucking? What does he know of the game of thrones, and what it takes to play it? But I meant what I said,” he added hastily, catching himself. “And I will be happy to set your mind at ease. What has the dog said to make you uneasy, sweetling? I am sure it is just a simple misunderstanding, or a truth twisted into falsehood by a coward and a traitor.”

 

“He said Cersei gave you my friend, Jeyne Poole, to do with as you wished.”

 

Baelish, clever as he was, had not been expecting that. His confident smile froze in place.

 

“He said you took her to one of your brothels, and beat her until she did what you asked of her, no matter how degrading. He said she's there still, a broken shell of a girl who lives to be the sport of men like my _dearly_ _departed_ second husband.”

 

“He lies,” the man replied swiftly, though Jon heard an uncertain tone he'd never heard in that man's voice before. “Queen Cersei _did_ ask it of me, but I could never be so cruel to an innocent girl! She came home to Winterfell on the ship meant for _you_ ; whatever became of her afterward, you may blame on the Ironborn and the Boltons.”

 

_Jeyne Poole, a clueless little girl, crossed Westeros and returned home_ alone _? He can't even come up with a decent story,_ Jon thought, incensed.

 

He was not surprised, but mildly disappointed. After the Red God had shown his powers by returning Jon to the living, he'd wondered if the old gods of his father might have tricks of their own; perhaps a bolt of lightning to strike the man dead? As far as he could tell, the weirwood had not prevented Baelish from lying as usual.

 

Then a whispering voice emerged from the heart tree.

 

_Liar!_ the wind breathed, and its boyish voice was oddly familiar. _Liar, liar, liar!_

 

One of the hidden Northmen—probably Lord Cerwyn, judging by the distance—cursed in surprise, too quietly for Littlefinger to hear. Jon was closer, however, and fought back a smile. He hadn't been king for long, but he knew a sign of divine favor could be just the thing they needed right now.

 

“What was that?” Littlefinger said sharply, looking around the clearing in alarm.

 

Sansa gave him her politest look of mild concern. “It's just the wind, my lord. Northmen say that's how the old gods speak. The Hound had another accusation, if you would be so kind.”

 

Rattled, the Vale lord made a visible effort to calm himself, and faced Sansa again.

 

“Let's hear it, sweetling,” he said at last. “What else does the Hound say to accuse me?”

 

“He said that you knew Cersei's children were bastards from the beginning,” Sansa began.

 

“Of course I knew! _Everyone_ knew in the end,” Baelish said immediately. “Stannis and Renly knew, Jon Arryn knew, the old fool Pycelle certainly knew. Everyone but Robert, and Ser Barristan, I suppose. Your father took his time figuring it out, but even Ned Stark got there eventually, with my help.”

 

“He said that my father asked you to secure the City Watch,” Jon's sister went on, watching the man's face carefully. “He said you promised to bring the Watch to his side, but that in the throne room, you and the Watch betrayed him. You held a dagger to his throat and told my father he shouldn't have trusted you.”

 

The former Master of Coin scoffed. “And you believed this?”

 

“I've known you both for some time now, Lord Baelish. Sandor Clegane has told me many things I didn't wish to hear, but he does not lie. Did you betray my father or not?”

 

“Do you truly believe I would do such a thing?” he replied, giving her a small, disbelieving smile. Jon wasn't sure what he'd done to join with Ghost, but he could smell the man's fear through the direwolf's nose suddenly. He didn't usually warg while awake! It was very distracting; Ghost's instincts were _screaming_ to bite, to kill this intruder who threatened their den.

 

“You forget, Petyr, that I saw you push Aunt Lysa out of the Moon Door. I _know_ you're capable of things honorable men wouldn't do, and I heard her admit she poisoned Jon Arryn for _you_. If there is the slightest chance I will forgive you for what you did to me, I will have the truth, _now_.”

 

“Very well,” he said, no longer smiling. “I _did_ turn the Watch against your father's men. I knew if we did things his way, it would be a disaster, and I acted quickly to safeguard the kingdom.”

 

_Liar, liar, LIAR!_ whispered the old gods. Littlefinger was definitely rattled now. His eyes darted frantically around the godswood.

 

“My father's way would have made Stannis Baratheon king,” Sansa argued, pretending she'd heard nothing. “How was that bad for the kingdom?”

 

“Your _idiot_ father warned Cersei that he knew about her treason,” Petyr Baelish said angrily, losing his patience. “I _told_ him he could have kept quiet, stayed as Joffrey's Hand, and kept the peace in the kingdom for a few years longer. But he told Cersei Lannister to flee, because he would inform Robert of what she had done as soon as he returned from his hunt, and he didn't want the deaths of her bastards on his precious, honorable conscience! You may thank your imbecilic father for King Robert's untimely death; because he warned the queen, she had Robert poisoned, and Lannister men slaughtered every Stark man in King's Landing.”

 

Sansa stepped back. Her mouth had fallen open in shock, and her blue eyes glimmered with unshed tears. Beside her, Ghost bared his teeth menacingly at Littlefinger, though the direwolf made no sound. The Hound had warned them that Baelish had done what he'd done to make Catelyn Stark a widow, but even Jon was surprised at the depths of Littlefinger's vitriol for Ned Stark.

 

The old gods were silent. Either they too, were shocked, or Petyr Baelish had told the truth for once.

 

“It was necessary, Sansa,” he said, quieter now. He made to reach for her, but Ghost got in the way, blocking his path. Baelish didn't dare step closer to the direwolf.

 

“It made my mother a widow, you mean” she accused, staring at Littlefinger accusingly. “I heard what you said to Aunt Lysa. Will you kill _me_ , when you remember that I am Sansa, and not Catelyn?”

 

“No, never!” Baelish cried. He had never sounded so sincere to Jon's ears. “I did love Catelyn once, but it was a foolish, boyish fancy. It is _you_ I love, Sansa; that is why I took you from King's Landing, and why I pushed Lysa—to _save_ you from her madness! She would have killed you, remember?”

 

Sansa looked deep in thought. “Sandor Clegane was not in King's Landing for this, but tell me true, Petyr; when I foolishly told Dontos Hollard that the Tyrells planned to spirit me away to Highgarden, I'm sure he ran and told you. What did you do?”

 

“I told the Lannisters,” he replied, hesitating. “I wished to marry you myself, and they knew it; but Tywin and Cersei would not allow a minor lord from the Fingers to marry the Key to the North. That is how your marriage to the Imp came about.”

 

Sansa closed her eyes. She had confessed to Jon, in one of those rare moments when she spoke of King's Landing, that the silly girl-child she'd been had finally died on her first wedding day.

 

“I am sorry!” Baelish pleaded. “I never thought they'd sink so low as to marry you to _Tyrion_ , or that they'd do it so quickly! I thought Lancel, or Martyn, perhaps—”

 

“Then you really are a fool. Tyrion treated me miles better than Ramsay,” Sansa said coldly. “And if you loved me so much, why did you marry me to yet _another_ man, when I was finally free of Tyrion Lannister?”

 

“If you were in the North,” Baelish explained, “I would have the crown's blessing to ride here with the Knights of the Vale, and take Winterfell from the Boltons for rebelling against King Tommen. You would have vengeance on the family that slaughtered yours, you would have your home, and you'd be a widow once more, free to marry your rescuer.”

 

Once again, no sound came from the weirwood.

 

“Am I forgiven, dearest?” Littlefinger asked, finally able to walk to Sansa's side now that Ghost had moved. “I did what I did to make you my queen; I thought you knew that. If you wish it, I will make you queen yet. Winterfell, the Iron Throne—they could all be yours and mine.”

 

“How?” asked Jon's sister.

 

“Come, Sansa,” Littlefinger said gently. “I can't tell you all of my plans. Even the trees have ears.”

 

Sansa's face turned ice-cold. Jon remembered seeing the same expression on Catelyn Stark's face, and shivered.

 

“I am _through_ being anyone's pawn,” Sansa said fiercely. “If you mean to use me in your plans, I will know of them first, _my lord_.”

 

Petyr Baelish looked taken aback, but then he smiled, as though Sansa's show of backbone were his doing. “Very well, my love. I mean to make you queen here in the North, while I conquer the South. Every major house owes me greatly, except for the Lannisters, and I mean to collect. And a few well-placed secrets here and there will send the Lannister dynasty crashing down, leaving the Iron Throne free for the taking.”

 

“And what of Jon?” Sansa asked, betraying nothing.

 

Petyr Baelish shrugged. “A bastard will never command as much respect as a trueborn, even if he is Ned Stark's. A well-timed political blunder will have the Northmen clamoring for a _true_ Stark, one that doesn't blather on about wildling children's tales. And if your brother proves wiser than his sire or his predecessor, a bit of sweetsleep in his cup will send him back to his nameless mother. He'll feel no pain, and you will be Queen in the North, as you should have been from the start.”

 

From behind Jon, he heard a small gasp. He hoped the rest of his council would remain quiet a moment longer.

 

“You would kill the only brother I have left?” Sansa cried.

 

“If you truly wish to spare him, he could take the black again, I suppose,” Littlefinger said dubiously, “but what king would willingly step down in favor of his sister? And considering his history with the Watch, he'll not return in a hurry. It's best for us all if he dies in his sleep one night. Really, Sansa; after all the grief that boy caused your mother, I'm surprised you care so much for him.”

 

“Would it not cause suspicion, to use the same poison on Jon that you're using on Sweetrobin?”

 

“Not at all,” replied Baelish, frowning. “You know Robert has always been sickly, and no one suspects a thing. There would be different maesters tending to each patient. And your brother supposedly returned from the dead; would it be so strange if he went back to that state one night, now that Stannis' Red Witch is not here to work her sorcery?”

 

Jon watched his sister shiver. He wasn't sure if it was disgust at the man's callousness, or excellent acting. Then she reached behind her head, and pulled up her fur-lined hood. It was the signal.

 

“Cold, my dear?” Baelish asked.

 

“I am a Princess in the North,” Sansa replied coolly. “Cold is in my blood, Petyr. _Seize him!_ ”

 

Immediately, Jon's men stepped into view, surrounding Sansa, Littlefinger, and Ghost. Even the tiny Lady Mormont stepped forward, dagger in hand, and glaring at Littlefinger with pure disgust. Lord Royce looked sick, but the sword he pointed at Petyr Baelish was steady. Next to him stood Lord Glover and Ser Davos, also pointing their steel at the man's chest and groin. Lord Cerwyn's and Lord Norrey's swords were inches from Littlefinger's back, surrounding him with steel.

 

Jon joined them. He knew from prior experience that his face was as cold as his father's when he'd executed criminals. Perhaps criminals deserved some compassion, but Jon could not muster any for _this_ weasel of a man. The sooner his ashes were swept out of Winterfell, the better.

 

“We heard your confession, Petyr Baelish, and so have the old gods of the North,” Jon said gravely. “You conspired to murder Lord Jon Arryn. You killed Lady Lysa Arryn, and Dontos Hollard. You are poisoning the current Lord of the Vale, Robert Arryn. You lied to the Lords Declarant of the Vale. You betrayed my father, and abetted the treason of Cersei and Jaime Lannister. You took an innocent girl of Winterfell and sold her into slavery at one of your brothels. You kidnapped Princess Sansa Stark. You pledge your men to our cause, and plot to murder me in the same breath.”

 

“Your crimes are so numerous that I could never list them all, and you befoul our godswood by your very presence. Is there anyone who will speak for you, or should I take your head now?” Jon finished, slowly removing Longclaw from its scabbard. The godswood was utterly silent but for the ringing of Valyrian steel.

 

Petyr Baelish had grown paler with every sentence. He looked ready to faint, and Jon caught the sharp scent of urine as Littlefinger pissed himself. The condemned man turned to Sansa, but he found no mercy in her face.

 

“Please, your grace,” Lord Royce spoke up. “I am as appalled as you. This man's crimes against House Stark, House Arryn, and the kingdom at large are beyond count. Even the gods broke their silence to condemn him,” he added, shooting a wary glance at the heart tree. “It is your right to take his head, but let the Knights of the Vale hear his crimes first, especially his poisoning of our liege lord. Most of the men have no idea how depraved this man truly is, and I would avoid strife between your men and ours if I can.”

 

“Very well,” Jon agreed, sheathing Longclaw. The last thing he wanted was for the Vale men to accuse him of murder, and slaughter the Northmen and Free Folk in Winterfell in revenge. Above all else, he had to protect Sansa. “We will lock him up for now, and Lord Royce will assemble his men. Once everyone understands what has happened, Baelish dies.”

 

He offered Sansa his arm, and squeezed hers lightly when she took it. Behind them, Lords Royce and Glover had taken Littlefinger, who had not said a word, and marched him unceremoniously towards the dungeons. Lady Mormont and Ser Davos followed, still holding their weapons within easy reach. Ghost walked behind them, his red eyes fixed on Littlefinger.

 

When they exited the godswood, Sandor Clegane roared with laughter at the sight of Petyr Baelish, pale and surrounded by the steel of enemies that wished him dead.

 

“About time someone caught this snake and cut off its head,” he said with relish. “When's the hanging?”

 

“Hanging?” Harwin cried. “No, Clegane, we Northmen dispense justice with a _sword_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOM. I told you it would be a family affair, and I'm not even done! Bran, from way beyond the Wall, wanted to do his bit too. Even Ghost wants to rip Littlefinger to shreds. And Jon is so angry that he's warging (Show Jon really needs to get with the program and practice before he meets Rhaegal!). Littlefinger is a tricksy little bastard, though, so it ain't over until he's good and dead.
> 
> Let me know what you thought of the conversation with Sansa! Littlefinger is so different from books to show that I hardly knew which way to go with him, but since sending Sansa to the Boltons is a stupid move only Show LF could do, I had to skew more towards that.
> 
> Next time: Sansa gives a gift, visits some friends, and shocks a Hound.


	4. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude, unspoiled by Littlefinger. Sansa gives Jon a gift, visits some friends, and shocks an old acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those who are familiar with my naming scheme might have seen this story title and wondered what the Tyrells had to do with it. The answer is nothing at all...

**SANSA II**

 

Sansa had never gone near the castle forge in her childhood. She knew Arya had done, and her three eldest brothers, but this was one corner of Winterfell with which she was not familiar. She was lucky to have Jon with her, though it spoiled the surprise a bit.

 

“Come, Sansa, tell me what you've done,” the King in the North asked her curiously. “I have a sword, my ringmail is in good condition, and I don't usually carry a shield.”

 

Sansa huffed. “Really, Jon, what do I know of armor? I didn't commission a full set of plate, if that's what you feared.”

 

“Well, what is it, then? I doubt it's a new set of silver spoons.”

 

“Patience, your grace,” she told him, grinning when he flinched. She wondered how long it would take him to accept his new title.

 

“Ah, Princess Sansa!” greeted Mikkar, the smith. He'd been recently married when Jon and Sansa had left Winterfell, and an apprentice to his father, Mikken. Sansa had met him in the Great Hall, and heard much about his family and the murderous Ironborn, as well as his hatred of Theon and the Boltons, when conspiring with the smith to make Jon's surprise.

 

“Jo—your grace,” Mikkar added, bowing respectfully when he saw Jon.

 

“Good morning, Mik. Do you know why I'm here? Because I don't,” the King in the North told the smith.

 

“Of course I know, your grace,” he replied cheerfully. “By the old gods, it's strange calling you that, King Jon! It's in here.”

 

He reached under his worktable and found a metal box, square and no more than six inches tall. A running direwolf adorned the lid. Mikkar offered it to Jon with a flourish. Puzzled, Jon turned to Sansa.

 

“Open it,” she commanded, smiling.

 

Jon did so, and his breath caught. Inside the padded box was a circlet of hammered bronze, adorned with nine iron spikes shaped like swords. Every Stark king in the crypts until King Torrhen had worn a similar crown, and Riverrun's smiths had made an identical one for Robb. Instead of the First Men's runes of the first and second crowns, Mikkar had embossed the words _Winter is Coming_ onto the bronze band.

 

“We don't know where Robb's crown is,” Sansa admitted. “The Freys must have kept it. But you need a symbol of your new title, too. I hope you'll wear it, at least for important occasions when you need to be kingly, like Littlefinger's execution.”

 

Jon reached for the crown with careful fingers. Sansa knew he was not the type to flaunt his position, but the lords and smallfolk of the North needed to see their new king as he was now, and not as the bastard boy he'd been.

 

Sansa and Mikkar watched as Jon placed the crown on his head, and adjusted it to his liking.

 

“Do I look like a king yet?” he asked dubiously.

 

“Not just a king. You look like a _Stark_ ,” replied Mikkar, grinning, giving Jon a small bow. “Your grace.”

 

“What about you, Sansa?” Jon said suddenly. “If I have to wear a crown, you should, too. You _are_ a Princess in the North, and I have no children; that makes you Crown Princess.”

 

Sansa shook her head. It was so like Jon, and unlike anyone else, to name her his heir without an ounce of ceremony or hesitation! Foolish, too, since no Northman would follow an untrained woman into battle, but she loved Jon for it, all the same.

 

“I thought of that, your grace,” the smith told him, now grinning wider. “I took the liberty of making this for the princess.”

 

He produced another box, this one quite a bit shorter. After a nudge from Jon, Sansa opened the box and found a circlet of iron, slightly thinner than Jon's bronze one, and embossed with leaves. Instead of swords, this crown bore nine winter roses made of bronze.

 

“Good work, Mik, that's beautiful,” said Jon, following the edge of a rose petal with his gloved finger.

 

“When m'lady Arya returns, I'll make her another,” the smith offered. His simple faith that Arya lived and would come home warmed Sansa to her bones, especially after her conversation with Littlefinger.

 

“I can't see Arya wearing roses in her hair, even if they're made of metal,” murmured Jon.

 

“Aye,” agreed Mikkar, laughing. “ _Her_ crown would have swords as well, or perhaps running horses.”

 

Sansa had taken her new crown thoughtfully. Never in her life had she imagined such a thing; her childhood dreams had involved delicate circlets of silver and gold, studded with sparkling gems that caught the sunlight and matched her eyes and her gowns. But the winter rose crown was a beautiful reflection of herself. _She_ had been easily crushed by careless hands, but remained resilient and beautiful in the growing cold. She put it on and faced her brother.

 

“Lovely,” he approved, tucking a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear, and straightening her crown. “Petyr Baelish will see the Winter Rose of the North before he dies, standing unbroken despite all he did to our family; let the sight haunt him forever in the seven hells of the southron gods.”

 

“Is it my turn to have a nickname?” Sansa japed. “Robb was the Young Wolf, you're the White Wolf, and I'm to be the Winter Rose?”

 

“If you like,” her brother said agreeably, taking the two boxes from Mikkar and offering her his other arm. She took it, and they bid the smith farewell, heading back to their own quarters. They met a few wildlings, who jeered and bowed in jest at the sight of their crowns. Sansa knew better than to take offense by now. “A rose has thorns, and you have your needles. I think Winter Rose suits you well, though Fiery She-Wolf would do for the Free Folk.”

 

“Why?” Sansa asked, puzzled.

 

“The Free Folk say that hair like yours is kissed by fire, and lucky,” Jon explained.

 

Sansa inspected a lock of hair with her free hand. “It hasn't brought me much luck.”

 

She looked up at Jon's face, and was struck by the sadness there. “What is it, Jon?”

 

He sighed. “I never told you this,” he said slowly, “but I broke my Night's Watch vows once. I was sent on a mission north of the Wall, and infiltrated Mance Rayder's camp. That is how I came to befriend people like Tormund. And I spared the life of a girl I found while scouting with the Halfhand, so she said I'd stolen her.”

 

“Stolen her? You mean—”

 

“Aye, to _her_ it was like I'd married her,” Jon said wryly, watching Sansa's face. She knew her surprise showed. “She was very...persistent. In the end, I did love her. We climbed the Wall together, and when she realized I hadn't truly deserted the Watch, she shot me. ”

 

He looked down at his leg, lost in his memories.

 

“What was her name?” Sansa asked carefully.

 

“Ygritte,” Jon said. “She was kissed by fire, too, but that didn't save her. She died when the Free Folk attacked Castle Black. They were desperate to come south of the Wall, you see,” he explained.

 

“Poor Jon,” Sansa murmured, meaning it. “I thought you, alone at the Wall, would be safe from the trials of love, and yet here you are. Bards will sing of Ygritte, who shot a king in the leg and wounded his heart. The maidens will flock to Winterfell, hoping to cheer up their king and take his mind off his lost love.”

 

Her brother and king looked horrified at the very idea. There he stood, the image of a young Stark king of old, and Sansa could not stop the laugh that erupted from her belly.

 

“You needn't look so scared, Jon,” she giggled. It had been _years_ since she had laughed so easily.

 

“I have a very deadly war to fight against the Others. The last thing I want is to have the ladies of the North chasing me around Winterfell, hoping I'll make them queens,” Jon told her seriously, opening the door and holding it for her.

 

“You can't avoid it now, brother,” Sansa said practically, turning to face him as she passed by. “You married off Alys too quickly; she would have been the perfect Queen of Winter. Now the chase will only stop when you choose another queen, and _then_ the others will fight to become your mistresses.”

 

Her brother stiffened. “Well, anyone who thinks that can forget it right now. I have no plans to marry for the nonce, but if I did, I would not shame my wife.”

 

Sansa smiled. Good men were rare in this world, but Jon was decidedly one of their number.

 

“I know you won't,” she replied softly.

 

The King in the North gave Sansa the box for her crown, and retired to his solar. He usually attended to his correspondence at this hour, as well as the household and army accounts, knowing Sansa had no head for figures. That gave her enough time to sneak down to the kennels, where her new friends waited. For a moment, Sansa considered taking off her circlet and putting it away. Then she changed her mind; she was a Stark, a Princess of Winter, and she would make no apologies for it.

 

Inside the kennels, she was surprised to find the Hound, though really, she shouldn't have been. Why should a kennelmaster's grandson _not_ visit his fellow hounds? He turned, hearing her approach, and raised his undamaged eyebrow at the sight of her new crown.

 

“You're dressed far too pretty for a visit to the dogs, Princess,” he said. “And shouldn't you be in the Hall, telling the useless Knights of the Vale why Littlefinger is about to die?”

 

“No, thank you,” Sansa said serenely. “I've had as much of Petyr Baelish and his crimes as I can handle in a day. And I disagree, ser,” she added, kneeling to greet the dogs through the bars. Sansa reached into the bag she'd taken from the kitchen, and pulled out a handful of sausages. The dogs' tails waved frantically as she handed out the treats. “The dogs are my friends, and they've done me a great service.”

 

“Oh really?” Sandor Clegane asked curiously. “And I'm not a ser. Why do you insist on calling me that?”

 

Sansa met his eyes with her own. “We don't really have knights in the North, unless they squired for a southron or follow the Faith of the Seven. I call you ser because to me, you represent what a knight should be, rather than what they are. You are here to defend us from danger, are you not?”

 

He said nothing. “And these dogs ate my second husband for me,” Sansa explained, running a hand through Kyra's fur.

 

The Hound's mouth fell open. “WHAT?”

 

“It's true, I swear it by the old gods and the new,” Sansa assured him, noting his disbelief. “Ramsay was fond of hunting women instead of beasts; these dogs helped him. If the woman gave good sport, he would name one of the bitches after her. But before the battle he starved them for days, poor things, hoping they'd eat Jon for him. I locked Ramsay in there after we won, so the women he hunted and I had our revenge, and these beauties had a feast.”

 

Sandor Clegane said nothing. He stared at her, wordless.

 

“I may have been a little bird when you first met me,” Sansa said, “but I am a wolf now, ser.”

 

“You're more like your sister than you thought,” the Hound told her at last.

 

Sansa smiled bitterly at this. “Arya would have stabbed Ramsay to death on their wedding night,” she said firmly. “She hated everything about King's Landing, and she knew from the start what Joffrey was. I wish Nymeria had _eaten_ him instead of given him a scratch.” _Then Lady and Father might not have died for nothing_ , she thought sadly.

 

Her thighs burned from squatting by the dogs. She rose, using the kennel bars for support. On the other side, Red Jeyne, Sara, and Kyra whined piteously.

 

“Oh, hush,” Sansa told them. “I'll come back tomorrow, you know I will.”

 

“I did wonder why you were no longer afraid of me,” Sandor Clegane said, quieter than he usually spoke. He stepped closer, but did not move to touch her. “I suppose you've seen real monsters now.”

 

The princess blushed. “I have. Can you forgive me for the way I treated you?”

 

The Hound scoffed. “Forgive you? For being disgusted at the sight of me? I can't fault any woman for that, little wolf. _I'm_ disgusted at the sight of me.”

 

“Well, it was still rude of me,” Sansa insisted, falling back on politeness when sincerity was not enough. “And I will prepare something for you to take on your journey north. You once gave me your cloak when I needed it most,” she said, fighting back a shudder at the memory of her beatings and humiliations in front of Joffrey's court. “Now I will give _you_ one.”

 

The man blinked, like he could not remember when he'd given her a cloak. Then his eyes darkened. “You don't owe me anything for _that_.”

 

“I do,” she argued. “No one but you and Tyrion even spoke out when Joffrey had his Kingsguard beat me, and you're going to the Wall for all our sakes. The least I can do is make sure that you're warm enough. This won't do at all,” Sansa decided, prodding at the Hound's scratchy woolen cloak.

 

Sandor Clegane looked at Sansa like he'd never seen anything like her. Then he gave her a small bow.

 

“Then I thank you, Princess,” he said in his raspy voice.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our little girl is all grown up and feeding enemies to the dogs. *sniff* I almost deleted this whole chapter, because it wasn't really related to the Littlefinger/Brotherhood plot, but I decided to leave it in. Sansa has grown up a lot since she last saw the Hound, and I can't resist some Stark bonding feels. And Jon had to get a crown sometime before Jaime's arrival in The Son's Song. This way it's a final insult to Littlefinger.
> 
> Also, I accidentally turned Sansa into Galadriel (reigning not-queen from an ancient royal line, feeds people and gives them handmade cloaks?) and I'm kind of okay with it.
> 
> Re: Alys - this is a reference to Book Jon's plot. Alys rode to the Wall and asked Jon for help because her family wanted to marry her against her will to her uncle, so he could become Lord of Karhold. Jon couldn't do a whole lot, being a sworn Black Brother, but he arranged a marriage between her and the Magnar of Thenn. Book Thenns are the most civilized wildlings of all, with actual lords and laws and bronze armor. So Alys is now Alys Thenn, the happily married Lady of Karhold, and not a potential bride for Jon.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Also, if anyone is interested in being my beta reader at any time during the Aemon series, holler! (Do people still have beta readers? It was a thing when I first got into fanfic, back in the early 2000s...) You wouldn't have to fix my spelling and grammar too much, I should think, but you'd get to read my drafts, suggest improvements, and catch any plot holes before they happen. And you'd get to kick me in the arse (figuratively) when I get lazy. :-)


	5. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Littlefinger is a dick and Jon is out for blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pro Tip: Don't write ASOIAF fanfiction after reading Tamora Pierce novels. I re-read the Immortals quartet recently, and it's been messing with my direwolf mojo! (Daine, the main character in the quartet, is kind of a super-warg, and animals start thinking more complex, human-like thoughts when they're exposed to her magic. She also has an affinity for wolves, so once you read this you'll understand why this was bugging me so much. I kept confusing poor Ghost!).

 

** JON II **

 

Jon returned to the Great Hall in a moment of chaos. Wearing his new crown, and hoping no one would notice the ink stain on his shirt sleeve, he took his seat at the high table. Bronze Yohn Royce stood nearby, loudly proclaiming that Petyr Baelish must die for his crimes. Jon's new Lord Hand sat at the end of the table, watching the proceedings in silence. Some northern lords had joined in as well, confirming Lord Royce's words but staying well out of the Vale men's deliberations. Lyanna Mormont caught sight of Jon and his crown, and beamed. He'd never seen such a smile on the solemn little girl's face before.

 

“We must return to the Gates of the Moon at once!” shouted a man in the black moon and yellow sun of House Pryor. “Our liege lord is already sickly, and we don't know how much poison he has been fed! Any delay might result in his death!”

 

“We cannot leave when there is a war coming,” Harry Hardying, Heir to the Vale, protested. “We were brought here under false pretenses, it is true; but we offered our aid to the North, and it would be craven to renege now.”

 

“Hear, hear,” called out several knights, most of them young and eager for glory.

 

“Our whole army could not travel so fast, in any case,” Lord Melcolm wheezed. The man was old and rather frail, but he'd dressed in full plate for a spar against a slew of younger men, and wore it proudly. “Let us send a small group to White Harbor, with the fastest riders, to sail home to the Vale and take our liege lord into their protection. We _must_ get Lord Arryn away from Littlefinger's servants.”

 

“Aye,” seconded Sers Jon Elesham and Mychel Redfort.

 

“Eustace,” ordered Lord Royce, calling a knight of House Hunter. “Aron Hersy, Edmund Waxley; you have the fastest horses. Ride to White Harbor immediately, and take the first ship south. I will send ravens to Lord Manderly and to the other Lords Declarant to explain the situation. Lady Waynwood would be glad to foster young Lord Robert for the nonce, I should think.”

 

The young knights departed at once.

 

“And now, to the man himself,” Lord Royce said darkly. “Petyr Baelish has abused the goodwill of our late liege lord, Jon Arryn—“

 

“Aye!” chorused a few young knights.

 

Bronze Yohn sent them a glare so frosty they froze on the spot.

 

“As I was saying—Petyr Baelish took advantage of our lord's generosity, and our liege lady's love for her father's foster-son. He is a man so foul that the gods themselves broke their silence to condemn him! I swear it on the honor of House Royce, by the old gods and the new; if any man should doubt me, let him ask His Grace,” he shouted, pointing at Jon, “or the members of his council. They heard the gods of the First Men name Baelish a liar, and they heard Baelish confess to the murder of Lady Lysa!”

 

He took a deep breath. His chest heaved with emotion.

 

“Now, after all you have heard, is there _any_ man here who believes Petyr Baelish does _not_ deserve death?”

 

The man looked around the room, and not a single man spoke in favor of Littlefinger. Jon was glad; it made things so much easier!

 

Then Bronze Yohn frowned. “Where is Corbray?”

 

“He was with us in the archery practice grounds, my lord,” spoke up the knight of House Belmore.

 

“Aye, with Gerold Grafton. They stayed behind when you summoned,” added a Templeton. “I thought they'd follow us, but they did not.”

 

Lord Royce's face turned white.

 

“To the dungeons,” he ordered, “now!”

 

Jon was not sure what Lyn Corbray's absence meant, but the tone of panic in Bronze Yohn's voice made him obey immediately. He ran after the Vale men, Longclaw in hand, down to Winterfell's dungeons. Before too long, he saw two of the Winterfell guardsmen, slumped facedown in patches of red snow.

 

“Curse that lying, treacherous son of a whore!” roared Bronze Yohn. “How many guards were posted here, your grace?”

 

“Ten,” Jon answered grimly.

 

Down the stairs they went. Lyn Corbray and Gerold Grafton, armed with Valyrian steel and Baelish gold, had killed all of the guards. Two more lay dead on the stairs, and three more at the bottom. The final three had died in front of Littlefinger's cell, guarding the traitor to the last. The cell was empty, of course.

 

An incandescent rage flooded Jon.

 

“FIND THEM!” he shouted, racing back up the stairs. Lord Royce followed, calling for his knights to saddle their horses immediately.

 

The courtyard and stables became a flurry of activity. Knights, Northmen, and Free Folk were searching the castle or preparing to leave, ignoring the freezing cold winds in the heat of their anger.

 

“I swear to you, King Jon, I will hunt this wretched beast down myself!” Bronze Yohn swore, taking his horse's reins from his wide-eyed squire and vaulting onto his saddle.

 

“He won't be anywhere near the castle, your grace,” said Lord Melcolm. He looked devastated. “Is there no end to this man's treachery and murder?”

 

Sansa ran to Jon's side, preventing his reply. “He's escaped, hasn't he?” she asked, noting the angry faces. Before Jon could stop her, she turned and saw the dead guards. Her dispassionate gaze told Jon that she'd seen much worse under the Boltons and Lannisters, and his heart went out to her.

 

“We'll bring him back,” Jon said. “Do you suppose the hounds might—?”

 

“Aye, they'll find him,” the Hound replied, coming up behind the king. “Give them something with Littlefinger's scent, and those beasts will chase him to the ends of the earth.”

 

“I'll find something!” Sansa promised, running towards the guest house.

 

“I should have known,” Jon berated himself.

 

“You set ten men to guard a weakling thief with a silver tongue,” the Hound told him, pitiless. “You could have posted a hundred, and it would have made no difference. As long as the thief has gold, and some of the guards accept it, or he has friends outside his cell, he will escape.”

 

“I've hunted beasts north of the Wall, King Crow,” Tormund told him, riding up close with a hungry grin. “One southron coward will be easy prey after that.”

 

He rode away, followed by the rest of the mounted Free Folk.

 

“Shall we ride after Baelish, your grace?” offered the Lightning Lord. Jon had barely seen him today.

 

“You're welcome to it,” Jon answered. “I suppose he'd ride down the Kingsroad, but I don't know for sure. He may be headed to White Harbor.”

 

“The Knights of the Vale split in two,” Dondarrion told him. “I heard Bronze Yohn send half to the Harbor Road, and the other half down the Kingsroad towards Cerwyn.”

 

“Then if you're willing, ride to Torrhen's Square,” Jon suggested. “He may try to take a ship down the western coast. I'd go myself, but my horse is not up to the chase,” he admitted. A king would usually have the best horse, but Jon had not replaced any of his things since the Northmen had bestowed the title upon him. His horse, taken from the Night's Watch stables, was a sturdy beast meant for battle and for endurance in the cold, not speed.

 

Dondarrion nodded, and Jon watched as he, Thoros of Myr, and a few others of the Brotherhood saddled their horses.

 

The Hound snorted. “Your sister would have a fit if you _did_ ride out, your grace,” he said. “Don't be stupid. Baelish has only two men with him, and I've never heard that he's an extraordinary rider.”

 

As though summoned by the Hound's thoughts, Sansa appeared. She looked incensed.

 

“There's nothing in his room!” she cried. “Corbray and Grafton must have taken his things the moment we locked him in the dungeon!”

 

“That sounds like something he'd do,” the Hound agreed. “He probably planned this weeks ahead of time, in case he was found out and had to flee in a hurry.”

 

“Well, without a scent, how will the hounds find him?” Sansa despaired.

 

Jon paced like a caged wolf, so angry he could barely think. Then, he remembered smelling Baelish as Ghost earlier today. He might understand if Jon asked him to hunt Baelish.

 

 _Ghost_ , he thought desperately. _I need you, boy!_

 

Suddenly, the world shifted, and Jon _was_ Ghost.

 

Smells became unbearably strong. Familiar scents overwhelmed him—his man-wolf, whose body had fallen to the ground while his mind rode with Ghost; the flowers his red packmate used to wash; the unique scent of the friendly man with the short paw. From his current spot near the kitchens, the wolf could smell every meal that the men had eaten today, and his belly rumbled.

 

 _No_ , Jon thought frantically, _we have to find Baelish first!_

 

Ghost sniffed the ground. He remembered the scent of the weasel-man. It was mint and sandalwood and deceit, with a healthy dose of fear when the white wolf was too close for comfort.

 

There!

 

He'd found a trail. The white wolf dashed out of the open gates, running at top speed. The sun was falling already; the men-hunters would need to stop soon. He must find the weasel-man before then.

 

On he ran, smelling winter in the air. This was his home; this was where he'd been born, he remembered. Long ago, when the man-rock did not smell of fire. This was where his man-wolf had found him, a pup crawling alone and starving. His man-wolf had been a pup himself. Ghost could not allow the weasel-man to destroy his home, or the last two humans in his pack.

 

 _Little sister_ , he thought mournfully, _you should be here, hunting the weasel-man with me_. She was the last, he knew it. He had felt his packmates' presence even when the forests and rivers separated them, but four of the six were gone now. Only the white wolf and the wild sister remained. She was far to the south, leading a pack of small gray cousins.

 

Before long, Ghost had caught up to the human hunting pack. He knew their scent well by now; they smelled of the lands north of the tall man-ice, where the dead men walked.

 

“Look at 'im go!” hollered their pack leader, pointing at Ghost. “We must be going the right way, fellas. Leave some for us, Ghost!”

 

Their horses were slow. Ghost left them far behind, snow crunching beneath his paws. Soon he had caught up to another group of men, the ones that smelled like summer and steel. The massive white wolf caught the sharp scent of terror as they saw him, a silent shadow flying across the snow next to the flat man-rocks. Their horses were afraid too, but the men-hunters would not let them flee.

 

Ghost ignored them. He had more dangerous prey to hunt.

 

The sun disappeared behind the trees. The great white direwolf followed the road south, unrelenting, with Jon encouraging him. The animals of the Wolfswood fled, as they usually did when direwolves and men hunted. Then the moon rose, and Ghost heard the distant howling of small cousins. He ignored the howls, silent as always.

 

Just as he'd begun to tire, he heard three horses galloping down the flat man-rocks. His prey was in the center, as befitted the weakest member of any pack. Quickly, before they saw him and used their metal claws, Ghost jumped at the middle horse and bit its hindquarters. Blood and warm flesh flooded his mouth as the horse screamed, and the weasel-man fell hard.

 

“Direwolf! Corbray! Grafton!” he shouted, and the other men slowed their horses, turning to face Ghost. The steel claws came out, glinting in the moonlight, and much longer than the weasel-man's. Ghost knew he would have to kill these others before he could kill his true prey. The two knights dismounted.

 

“Come on, you filthy beast,” shouted the closest one, waving his claw. He lunged, and Ghost jumped aside, turning quickly. With one swipe of his massive paw, the man's leg buckled, and he fell backward into the snow. Ghost knew better than to bite his metal skin; instead, he dove in and ripped out his throat. The man's last, high-pitched scream hurt the wolf's ears.

 

That left the weasel-man and the other one. His claw was different.

 

 _Valyrian steel_ , thought Jon, though this meant little to Ghost. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his prey, walking slowly toward the dead man's horse. Immediately, the great wolf chased after the man, his jaws closing around the nearest part—his foreleg.

 

The weasel-man shrieked in pain. “Corbray, kill it!” he ordered, unable to free himself from Ghost's jaws.

 

The direwolf saw the other man coming. He couldn't let go of his prey, or he would run; he knew men didn't need their forelegs to walk or to run—but the other man was more dangerous, and he had the strange metal claw. Conflicted, the wolf tried to drag the weasel-man away, while he screamed and wept in agony.

 

But Lyn Corbray had other ideas. He lunged, his claw wounding Ghost's side. The cut was not deep, but the wolf could no longer resist the urge to kill. He gave one final, powerful tug, and he felt the weasel-man's bones _crunch_. The weasel-man's arm came off entirely, and Ghost turned, satisfied, to face his new opponent.

 

 _Careful, Ghost_ , thought Jon desperately. _Stay away from that blade._

 

Ghost wished his sister's pack were nearer. A wolf was not meant to hunt alone, especially not smart prey like humans. But these two humans were a threat to his pack. Alone or not, Ghost had to stop them.

 

 _Jon_ , he heard suddenly. _Jon, please, wake up!_

 

It was the red packmate—Sansa! She was crying, and Ghost felt phantom teardrops land on his face. Lyn Corbray slashed at the wolf, who moved away quickly, and struck a blow himself, making the man cry out. Ghost had taken two fingers from his clawless hand.

 

 _Don't leave me alone_ , begged the Princess in the North.

 

 _He's not dying, Princess_ , said a raspy voice Jon knew to be the Hound's. _He's having a fit of some sort._

 

_What kind of fit lasts for hours?_

 

The dead man's horse had run away, and the weasel-man lay on the flat rocks, weeping and shaking in a puddle of his own blood. He had ripped some of his false black man-fur to stop the bleeding in his foreleg, but he was too weak to escape, just as Ghost had intended. His horse, too, lay dying in the snow from Ghost's attack. The only escape was the man with the metal claw, and _his_ horse.

 

 _Come back, Jon!_ Ghost heard as he struck again, this time striking the man's metal skin. It bent under his powerful jaws, but did not break. The man limped away, cursing.

 

“Go on, you stupid wolf,” Corbray said viciously. “You want to taste my steel? Then have a lick of _this_ , big boy.”

 

He lunged again, and this time the blade caught Ghost in the foreleg. It _hurt_! The direwolf retaliated immediately, using his bulk to force the man down and ripping out his face and throat, but Jon's control began to slip. He watched, helpless, as his wounded friend turned back to Littlefinger, who had used his distraction to reach Corbray's horse. He mounted clumsily, swaying like a drunkard. The poor horse galloped away, startled, and soon Ghost's prey was riding as fast as he dared, a speed the direwolf could no longer match with his injury.

 

 _No!_ thought Jon, _We can't let him get away!_

 

But Ghost was tired, and wounded, and unwilling to follow commands anymore. Jon felt the great wolf push him out of his mind and back into his own. The scents of the world dulled, and the fierce ache in his left foreleg—arm, rather—disappeared.

 

“No!” Jon shouted, waking up in the Lord's chamber at Winterfell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you flay me, let me just say...BEHEADING WAS TOO GOOD FOR LITTLEFINGER. I have a very painful death planned out for him, so he had to escape. Jon is not the sort of man who would torture a guy, so it had to be a horrible death of his own making. For now, he's alone, Ghost tore one of his arms off up to the elbow, and he's got no Qyburn to stop the imminent infection. 
> 
> The Starks will get their revenge. In pieces. Stay vengeful, my friends!


	6. Jon III and an Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Jon and Ghost deal with the aftermath of his skinchanging, Harrold Hardying gets a sweet new blade, and Willam Hunter takes in a stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! It's the end of yet another story, as Littlefinger fled and the Hound rides away from Winterfell. There will be a bit of setup for future ficlets, and at this point, Jon has exactly *zero* time for this Azor Ahai nonsense.
> 
> (Harry Hardying and Ned Dayne are book-only characters that I've incorporated into the tale. Harry is the heir to the Vale if Sweetrobin dies, and Edric Dayne is the Lord of Starfall, the nephew of Arthur and Ashara, and Beric's squire. He actually meets Arya in the books, and I feel like he was one of the victims of the lost 5-year-gap. He tells Arya that Wylla is Jon's mother, and Arya gets racist and says Dornishmen are liars and her dad only loved her mom and NANANANA I'm not listening!!! But my Ned is a little older and wiser, since everyone is older and wiser, and he may actually become Sword of the Morning.)

**JON III**

 

His sister, Ser Davos, and the Hound stood around Sansa's bed, watching Jon carefully.

 

“Jon!” Sansa cried, throwing herself into his arms. “What happened to you?”

 

“I was fighting Lyn Corbray,” Jon explained, his throat dry. “I killed Grafton and ripped off Littlefinger's arm, but Corbray stabbed me, and then I couldn't chase him any further.”

 

Sansa pulled away, blinking in confusion. She was too polite to say what she was thinking, at least in front of his Lord Hand and a near stranger, but Jon saw skepticism in her face.

 

“What are you nattering about, boy? You haven't left this castle,” the Hound said for her.

 

“No, I don't mean in this body,” Jon said impatiently. “I meant as Ghost.”

 

Ser Davos' jaw dropped. “So the wildling rumors are true? You really are a skinchanger, your grace?”

 

“Aye,” Jon replied, falling back onto Sansa's bed. “I dream I'm Ghost when I sleep, sometimes, but I've never been able to enter Ghost's mind at will before. But I was _so_ angry, and Ghost remembered Littlefinger's scent from this morning. He tracked him all the way down the Kingsroad.”

 

“You scared me,” Sansa chastised. She looked terrible. She still wore her Tully-blue gown and her winter rose circlet, but her eyes were bloodshot and her face was puffy from crying. Her auburn hair was messier than Jon had ever seen it.

 

“I'm sorry,” the King in the North apologized. “Did you never dream you were Lady, Sansa?”

 

Sansa looked down at her hands. “Only once, now that you mention it,” she said slowly, “but I didn't realize what it meant. And she died so long ago, I'd almost forgotten,” she finished mournfully.

 

“Ghost can sense Nymeria to the south,” Jon told her, grinning at the memory. “She formed a new pack with ordinary wolves, and they've been terrorizing our enemies in the Riverlands. If Ghost can't catch up to Baelish, Nymeria might.”

 

The Hound had listened to this explanation in a fascinated silence. Now he spoke up.

 

“Your wolf ripped off Littlefinger's arm, you said?”

 

“Aye, just to the elbow. He staunched the bleeding with his cloak, but he lost quite a bit of blood.”

 

“Well,” the Hound said cheerfully. “It may not be the clean death you planned for him, but it's death all the same. He has no maester, no protectors, and no friends north of the Twins, and it's fucking _cold_ up here. Even if your men can't catch him, he's a dead man.”

 

“I won't believe it until I see his head on a spike,” Sansa told them angrily.

 

“I agree,” Jon said. “We'll see if any of the riders catch up to him; I passed Tormund's men and Hardying's on my way,” he told them.

 

Whatever doubts Jon's sister and Hand might have felt vanished when Ghost turned up the next evening, bloodied and limping and carrying a half-frozen piece of human arm. The frostbitten ring finger bore a signet with a mockingbird. The hand was free of knightly calluses from weapons training, such as Corbray or Grafton might have had. It was Littlefinger's.

 

“Skinchanging, eh?” the Hound murmured to Sansa. “Wish _I_ could skinchange into my sigil. It would be intersting to know what those dogs are thinking, though they'd probably beg for food more often if they knew we were listening.”

 

Jon blinked, looking at Clegane in shock. He had never heard the man jape before. From Sansa's bemused expression, neither had she.

 

The king and the new Winterfell master of horse tended to the injured direwolf themselves. Though Jon might have taken Ghost to the kennelmaster as a pup, the wolf was larger than a pony these days. It took all of Jon's growing skinchanging skill to keep the animal still as his wounds were cleaned, stitched, and dressed, so he had little concentration to spare for anything else. Through Ghost's weary eyes, he watched as Hardying's Vale knights rode back to Winterfell, carrying two covered corpses on a makeshift sled.

 

“Your wolf made short work of these two traitors, your grace,” Harry the Heir told Jon, once the king had left his direwolf to sleep and recover. “I'd heard tales of your brother riding into battle with his direwolf, but only now do I believe them. And we recovered this beauty,” he added with relish, brandishing a sword. Jon remembered it well; it was the Valyrian steel blade that had injured Ghost.

 

“Lady Forlorn,” Ser Harrold said, admiring his prize. “I suppose this belongs to Lyonel Corbray now, but only if he had no part in his brother's treachery, or Littlefinger's plots against our little liege lord.”

 

“Is he much like his brother?” Jon asked neutrally.

 

“No, not at all,” the Vale man replied. “But unless I miss my guess, the whole family is in Littlefinger's pocket. Lyonel just married a merchant girl from the Fingers,” he confided, “and really, who else would have brokered _that_ match? The Corbrays are an old, respectable house, and this wench's only redeeming feature was her enormous dowry—or so says Aunt Anya, anyway.”

 

He returned Lady Forlorn to its scabbard. “I think I'll keep this for now. We'll need the Valyrian steel to fight your White Walkers,” he decided.

 

Jon could not disagree with that, even if he disliked Hardying's tone. He knew the Knights of the Vale were skeptical, and he could only brush off their remarks. They'd see the truth soon enough. “That we do, ser.”

 

There was nothing else he could do for now. The Brotherhood men who'd gone in search of Baelish returned within the fortnight, having found no one between Winterfell and Barrowton matching Petyr Baelish's description. To Jon's surprise, Lady Mormont had revealed an unexpected, but ladylike, talent for drawing; this very moment, ravens were spreading an uncanny charcoal likeness of Littlefinger to every keep in the North. Villages from the Neck to the Wall would have pictures of Petyr Baelish posted under a black sword and the crowned Stark direwolf, telling even the most illiterate peasants that Baelish was to be killed on sight, by order of the King in the North.

 

He hoped it would be enough.

 

When the Brotherhood had returned, Thoros of Myr approached Jon in the courtyard, where he trained against three Knights of the Vale. The priest watched, occasionally suggesting improvements, and clapped when the bout had finished. The three knights lay on the ground while Jon stood, catching his breath.

 

“You have a natural talent for the sword, your grace,” the Red Priest told him.

 

“I have,” Jon replied, “but I didn't have sparring partners at the Wall that could better my skill, save one. I'm out of practice.”

 

His humiliating defeat to Mance Rayder—disguised as Rattleshirt—was not something he liked to think about, but it was better than thinking of Mance's death—or his babe, long gone south with Sam and Gilly.

 

“I believe you,” Thoros was saying. “Tell me, King Jon, have you ever heard of Azor Ahai?”

 

“No,” Jon answered with a shrug.

 

The priest raised an eyebrow. “I thought you might have heard the legend from the Lady Melisandre.”

 

Immediately, Jon's face turned as dark as the night. “ _Don't_ speak to me of that woman.”

 

“She used to think Stannis Baratheon was Azor Ahai reborn,” the Red Priest insisted, following Jon when he turned away in disgust. “But she was wrong, your grace. Stannis Baratheon was never reborn amidst salt and smoke— _you_ were. You are the Prince That Was Promised.”

 

Jon took the priest by the neck and slammed him against the stable wall. “And if I was, what then? Am I to find a wife, just so I can stab her in the breast to forge a sword of fire? I am _not_ anyone's Prince That Was Promised, priest, and I want _nothing_ to do with a god that feeds children to the flames for good weather! Leave. Me. Be!”

 

The man winced, but did not fight. He only watched Jon with eyes full of pity.

 

“You will learn,” he said, irritating Jon with his certainty. “Ignore it if you will, but your destiny will follow you, your grace.”

 

He didn't speak to Jon directly for the rest of the Brotherhood's stay in Winterfell. Jon did not seek him out, preferring to stay far away from the Red God and his fanatics. He spent many evenings in his bedchamber, flat on his bed, trying to see through Ghost's eyes. It was becoming easier now, and he heard and saw many things he had not expected.

 

Sansa loved to visit Ghost and bring him treats, petting his fur absently and talking about the goings on inside the castle. Ghost saw her as part of his pack, there was no question about it. Even with his stitched-up wounds, he hovered protectively if strange men came near her. But others had come to visit as well.

 

The Hound had come once, and shared some roasted chicken with the injured direwolf. Jon had been so surprised that he'd fallen back into his own skin. Harry the Heir had also come, and he'd been brave enough to pet the wolf. Jon had been forced to stop Ghost from giving the green knight a playful nip. Ser Davos and Tormund were more frequent—and less shocking—visitors.

 

One morning, while Jon bathed in the hot springs after training with the Free Folk, he'd met Beric Dondarrion and his squire. That had led—quite naturally—to a comparison of murder scars, each accompanied by a grisly story on the older man's side. The Lightning Lord's squire, a Dornishman named Edric Dayne, looked on, fascinated. The idea of coming back over and over, and losing parts of his soul bit by bit, terrified Jon more than any death. He didn't know how Dondarrion could stand it.

 

“I have no choice,” the Lightning Lord told him when asked. “I've work yet to do before I earn my rest, so I must do it.”

 

As his master scrubbed thoughtfully at his beard, the squire approached Jon timidly.

 

“Your grace,” he said carefully, “do you know aught of your mother?”

 

Jon blinked. He had not been prepared for such a question, especially not from a Dornish lordling.

 

“Nothing at all,” answered the King in the North. “What of it?”

 

The squire's ears went red. “Well—I thought you might wish to know—we're milk brothers, you and I.”

 

Jon's mouth fell open. “What?”

 

“My lady mother had no milk when I was born,” he explained, “so she hired a wet-nurse from Starfall. Her name is Wylla, and she —”

 

“Go on,” Jon said, eager to hear more.

 

“She told me she had a little boy in the North, whom she'd left behind with Lord Stark. She knew you'd be cared for, but she missed you, all the same.”

 

“So my mother was your wet-nurse?” the king clarified, hardly believing that the mystery was solved at long last.

 

“Well,” Edric said slowly, “no, I don't think she was. I thought so, when I was younger, but Wylla was a very respectable lady, or Mother would not have hired her. It's more likely that she was your wet-nurse, too. Lord Stark came to Starfall to return my uncle Arthur's sword, and Mother said he brought a babe _with_ him, now that I think on it. But Wylla was always vague when your lord father was mentioned, almost like she was protecting your mother.”

 

Jon cursed under his breath.

 

“Sorry, your grace,” the younger man told him sheepishly. “I wish I knew more, truly.”

 

“Never mind, Lord Dayne,” the king told him.

 

“Ned,” the squire said suddenly, his ears red again. “My friends call me Ned.”

 

The boy's shyness reminded Jon painfully of Bran. They looked to be about the same age, his half-brother and his milk brother.

 

“Well,” he offered kindly, “if we're milk brothers, that should make us friends, don't you think? I'll call you Ned if you'll call me Jon.”

 

Ned grinned broadly, his blue-purple eyes shining. “The King in the North and the next Sword of the Morning, friends for life,” he agreed. “Wylla will be proud of us both.”

 

They began sparring together in the mornings. Edric was a natural swordsman, and slightly taller and broader than Jon, but he was not quite ready to claim Dawn, his family's ancestral blade. Jon learned very quickly that this was Ned's dream, and had been for a long time. The Daynes insisted that he must be knighted before becoming Sword of the Morning, _if_ he ever proved worthy.

 

“I never imagined I'd be squiring for a captain of outlaws,” he admitted to Jon once, when they were washing up after a strenuous workout. “But Lord Beric really does care about the smallfolk in a way most lords don't. I don't know what I'd do if he died again, and Thoros didn't bring him back.”

 

“What more do you need to do, to become a knight?” Jon asked curiously.

 

“Lord Beric or the king need to decide I'm worthy, and then I can stand vigil, be anointed in front of the Seven, and take my vows,” Ned replied, shrugging. Then he remembered who he was talking to, and grinned. “How about it, Jon?”

 

This drew a startled laugh from the King in the North. “I don't know anything about the Seven!”

 

“You could make me a knight in the sight of the old gods,” the squire suggested. “I'll stand vigil in the godswood, and swear to be brave and defend the young and innocent in the name of the old gods instead of the new.”

 

“And what would your family say? I'm sure the Dornish care _very deeply_ about the King in the North's opinion and the gods of the First Men,” Jon answered, brutally honest.

 

“The Daynes have First Men blood too, Jon,” Edric argued. “They're more likely to appreciate your judgment than the judgment of little Tommen Baratheon, really.”

 

Jon grinned and shook his head. “Well, I'm glad they value my opinion on martial matters more than a little boy's. But Lord Beric lives yet, Ned, and he has the right to knight you for now. I would not usurp his place.”

 

Ned's pout would have put Arya's to shame.

 

After a few days in his company, Jon was sorry to see his milk brother go. He didn't mind seeing the back of Anguy, the Red Priest, or even Lord Beric, who made Jon uncomfortable, but Ned Dayne was a good egg—far too good for the company he kept. Sansa was even sorrier to see the Hound leave, though she'd given him a parting gift. Sandor Clegane wore a new cloak, thick and warm with black fur trim at the neck, and an embroidered sigil of three black dogs on a yellow field. The exquisite needlework could only be Sansa's.

 

“Don't look so severe, Jon,” she chided, coming to stand beside him as the Brotherhood rode away. “He earned it several times over—not only with Baelish, but in King's Landing, when no one else would stand up for me.”

 

“I didn't say anything! I think it's a fine gift,” Jon shrugged.

 

“You could smile a bit more, then,” Sansa told him, smirking at him from beneath her winter rose crown.

 

Jon wore his own bronze circlet, though the strange weight on his head took some getting used to. He had to bow lower than usual to fit through the smaller doorways around the castle, and he'd knocked his crown to the floor several times already, though luckily not in front of his men.

 

“If I smiled more, they wouldn't know it was me,” Jon japed.

 

His sister laughed. “Yes, you're right; a King of Winter must always be stern and solemn, and only smile in his private quarters. We Starks have a reputation to maintain.”

 

The outer gates closed, blocking the Brotherhood Without Banners from view.

 

“Did you know my milk brother rides with them?” he told Sansa.

 

“Your _what_?”

 

“Milk brother. Apparently I shared a wet-nurse with the current Lord of Starfall,” Jon explained to her. “He's not quite legendary yet, but someday he might claim Dawn, the famous sword of House Dayne, and become Sword of the Morning. He doesn't know who my mother was, though,” he added, before Sansa could ask about her.

 

“Well,” Sansa said, raising her eyebrows, “as long as _this_ Dayne wields his sword to help a Stark, and not to kill one, I'm all for it. Now come,” she ordered, taking his gloved hand in hers. “We need to head to the kitchens. We have a celebration to plan.”

 

“Celebration of what?” Jon asked cautiously. “We haven't caught Littlefinger yet, and _he's_ not worth a feast. Maybe we could have one for Ghost, when he recovers.”

 

Sansa made an impatient tsk. “Others take Littlefinger! I meant a celebration for _you_ , silly! It's not every day the king turns two-and-twenty!”

 

And ignoring his protests, the Crown Princess led Jon inside the castle.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**WILLAM – an Interlude**

 

They'd been preparing their traps when the bloodied horse rode in, carrying a slumped figure on his back. The beast's sudden stop knocked the poor soul off its back, and the dead man fell to the snow.

 

“Willam!” cried Mother, rushing to the fallen man. “Beron, come here!”

 

Willam and his brother obeyed, following their mother. Edwylla, Beron's wife, took charge of the spooked horse, soothing him as only she could.

 

They turned the man over, and Mother clucked in sympathy at him. His left arm was a stump, hastily bandaged with bits of black cloak. The man was a stranger, and clearly wealthy, by his dress.

 

“He's alive!” breathed Mother, feeling the man's breath against her hand. “Barely, but he lives! Help me carry him!”

 

Their home wasn't far; Willam's family lived in a tiny hunter's village on the banks of the White Knife, far from the great castles of the North. They kept to their own in the summers, and when the winters roared, the entire village would pack up and head for the winter town outside Winterfell. Had the dying man arrived a fortnight later, he and his horse would have died alone in an empty village.

 

Beron and Willam placed the man on the nearest empty bed—Grandfather's. Immediately, Mother knelt beside him and got to work, calling for bandages, for hot water, for her tools. Edwylla returned, carrying the man's belongings in a saddlebag.

 

“He's got letters here,” she said, holding one up, “but no one can read them. Got this, as well,” she added, showing them a blue banner with a bird and a moon on it.

 

“At least he ain't a Bolton,” Beron said, wincing in sympathy as Mother cleaned the terrible bite.

 

“It's infected,” she murmured. “Edwylla, bring that candle here.” As her good-daughter obeyed, the older woman peered closer with her sharp gray eyes. “He's fevered and the skin here is already rotting. If there's any hope for this poor man, I must take the rest of the arm.”

 

“It's a death all the same, Mother,” Beron objected.

 

“Pish!” Mother replied impatiently. “Use your eyes, boy! This man never worked with his hands,” she observed. “And he ain't no knight, neither. This here is some southron lordling, prob'ly riding to Winterfell to talk to them lords. He can do that with one arm.”

 

“Shall I get Alyna?” Willam offered. The lass was Mother's apprentice, and steady with the knife.

 

“Aye, do,” she replied. “Tell her to bring her herbs and things.”

 

Alyna was already gathering her things when Willam knocked.

 

“Don't be daft, Wil!” she teased. “I knew your ma would call for me as soon as that poor man rode in.”

 

They ran back to Willam's home. As the village healer's son, Wil had plenty of practice holding down screaming men as his mother tended to their hurts, but it never got easier. The southron stranger, who had not woken at all, finally woke when Mother and Alyna sawed his upper arm clean off. Wil knew that the maesters in the big castles had something to dull the pain, called milk of the poppy, but his ma had none of that. The man's screams were terrible, and he called for strange people and places in his delirium.

 

“CAT!” he howled, when Alyna applied the heated metal to his shortened stump. The sizzle of cooking meat filled the small cabin.

 

“Poor man,” clucked Mother. “Whoever his Cat is, I hope she misses him as much as he misses her! He's had his share of pain already,” she added, showing Alyna the old scar running down the stranger's torso.

 

“That's quite old,” the apprentice replied, inspecting the old wound carefully. “I wonder if he fought in the Rebellion.”

 

“He don't have the muscles for it,” Mother told her. “I doubt he was ever a soldier. Now, Alyna, we must fight the foulness in his blood. Do you remember what to use for the tea and poultice?”

 

“Aye,” Alyna answered, going to the table where she'd left her pack. She removed small wooden boxes and metal tins, each full of some herb or mold. Willam watched her, fascinated by her graceful movements. She wasn't quite pretty, Alyna, but she was remarkable all the same.

 

She finished her mixing and returned to the bedside, carrying a paste that Mother spread over some bandages and wrapped around the stump, and a mug of tea that smelled horrible. Together, they helped the unconscious man drink it all.

 

As Mother undressed the unfortunate man to help him sleep, she rolled down his stockings and cursed. Two of his toes were frostbitten on the left foot, and as she uncovered the right foot, she saw another blackened toe.

 

“The gods have it in for this man,” she murmured. “I'll have to take the toes before they rot.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

A week later, the stranger finally woke.

 

“Hello there, milord,” Mother said cheerfully. “You've slept a long time. Do you know where you are?”

 

He shook his head, blinking up at them with gray-green eyes.

 

“Aye, I didn't think you did,” she told him. “You rode in on your last legs, bleeding all over that fancy horse of yours. Our village don't have a name, rightly, but it's home. We're on the White Knife River. What's your name, milord?”

 

Frantic eyes darted around the tiny hut, to Mother, to Willam, and back.

 

“Lyn,” he said at last. “Lyn Corbray, from the Vale of Arryn.”

 

“Fancy that!” Mother cried. “We ain't never met a southron before. Were you heading to Winterfell, when you was attacked?”

 

Lyn looked at his left arm, his eyes wide with horror. The sight of the bandaged stump brought him little comfort.

 

“No,” he said. “I was riding south, home to the Vale. I have urgent business there.”

 

“Well, milord, you'll have to wait, I'm afraid. You've only just beaten the infection.”

 

“Is there a maester here?” he asked.

 

Mother laughed. “Summer child, we ain't got no maesters! They only care for the lords in their castles! All we got in town is me, Old Beth, and my poultices. But winter is here, so we'll head to the winter town soon. We would have gone earlier, but we stayed to tend your wounds, milord. Surely you can see the maester and send messages from Winterfell. We hear the Starks took their home a few months back,” she added approvingly. “Beron heard it from White Harbor.”

 

Willam expected relief from this mysterious Lyn Corbray, perhaps joy that he'd be with the King in the North instead of a hunter's family and an old healer, but there was nothing. He looked frozen.

 

It should have surprised Wil, when he returned home the next day, a brace of winter hares over his shoulder, and found the house empty, but it did not. Lyn Corbray was gone, and so was his fancy horse. The blackguard had stolen food from several of their neighbors, as well as their own supply, and fled.

 

“We should have let him die!” Beron cried angrily, holding a tearful Edwylla. They'd have to find lots of meat now, if they wished to survive the journey to Winterfell.

 

“Aye, we should,” Willam replied slowly. He'd always heard that southrons were not to be trusted, and this only proved it. “But Mother would never have allowed it. It is her way. And the gods have their own punishments in store for such men.”

 

It was cold comfort, especially when Edwylla revealed that she was with child, but Willam only worked harder, setting his traps and trying to spear-fish as the game became scarcer. He must feed his family and keep them safe, and he would.

 

He had to.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I reached the end and Littlefinger is still not dead. What gives? Well...I kind of wrote myself into a corner. See, if you eagle-eyed readers were paying attention, Baelish gets mentioned in Parley like he's still alive, so he can't die just yet. He can get killed little by little though, and that's exactly what I'm going for.
> 
> Did you know that the fungus used to extract penicillin is in the same genus (Penicillium) as fungi used to make Camembert, Brie, Gorgonzola, and Roquefort cheeses? I know the discovery is hundreds of years in the future for a faux-Medieval world, but the story is full of anachronisms anyway; one more won't kill it, and they do have cheese in Westeros. Maybe it was an accidental discovery, just like in real life. I need Littlefinger alive so I can kill him some more, you feel me? 
> 
> Littlefinger Punishment Tally:  
> -Left arm ripped off by angry direwolf  
> -Left arm amputated without anesthetic  
> -Left arm cauterized  
> -Three toes lost to frostbite.
> 
> Next time, Bran and Brienne return to Winterfell, and things go down in the South.


End file.
